Return of the Crimson Guard

‘Naw. Was the dark. Looked like it actually tried to eat them. They jumped like Hood himself had snuck up and goosed them with his bony finger. They ran.’

Maybe not his bony finger, Jawl. ‘Get me up.’

Brill and Kibb raised him to his feet. ‘What happened to you, Sarge?’ Kibb said. ‘You look like someone beat you all over with boards.’

Tell May to load the lobber — toss all we got at the Guard column, break ’em.’

‘Lobber got broke, Sarge,’ Brill said sadly.

Oh, for the sake of Fener! ‘Then get them firing — fire! Now!’ He pushed both away.

‘OK, sheesh!’ said Kibb. He asked Brill as they went: ‘Is he always like this after a fight?’

Nait staggered up the hill. The dark and cold was the same. The smeared blood, sweat and grime began to solidify on his armour. ‘Heuk!’ Silence. He pulled a small skin of water from his belt, found it had burst, threw it aside. ‘Heuk!’ After just two paces more he suddenly burst in upon two figures near the flat crest, one lying curled as if dead or asleep, the other standing over him. It was the standing figure that captured Nait's attention. He'd never seen a Tiste Andii, but had heard them described often enough. This one resembled such: tall, black as night, almond eyes, long straight shimmering black hair. The calm, almost contemplative expression that Nait had seen upon Heuk rested now in this man's features. He wore a coat of the finest mail that descended all the way to his ankles, shimmering like night itself. And it seemed to Nait that the figure was not entirely there; he could see through it. Something hung at its side. Nait almost looked there but pulled his gaze away in time: a void hung there yammering terror at him. It seemed to suck in the night. The figure inclined his head to him.

‘Keep them here, soldier,’ he said. ‘Keep them close. Worse is to come. Much worse.’

Worse! What could possibly- But the figure walked off, hands clasped at his back, disappearing into the dark. Shit! He knelt at the curled man and found it was Heuk, apparently asleep, but deeply so, unresponsive and shivering badly. He grabbed him by his collar and dragged him down the slope. Worse? Worse than this? Damned unlikely unless Hood himself hiked up his rags and elected to shit on them.

Hurl was surprised by the lack of outriders and pickets north of the Imperial encampment. They rode slowly, ready for any challenge, a call to halt. But none came. The night was cool. Their horses’ breath steamed the air. Hurl caught her sergeant's eye and raised a brow in a question. The man shifted in his saddle, glowering, evidently even more uncomfortable with the situation than she. He directed her attention to a torch lying nearly extinguished. They rode over. Before reaching it their mounts shied away from dark shapes lying splayed in the tall grass. Banath dismounted, studied them. He remounted looking far more pale. Hurl cocked another question and he gave a sickly nod.

So, found him. But the rear elements? Soliel, no — that would be camp followers, noncombatants, families, craftsmen and women, and even… no, please not that. She urged her mount on with a kick. The troop picked up its pace.

They found the camp a shambles. Wrecked wagons, torn tents, scattered equipment, and everywhere mangled dismembered bodies. Survivors wandered, blank-faced, turned to watch them pass without even challenging their presence. Banath slowed his mount. ‘Shouldn't we…’

‘No, not yet. The trail goes on, yes, Liss?’ Riding behind Hurl, the mage gave a tight bob of her head, her lank hair swinging. ‘It goes on. And… I'm afraid I know where he's headed.’

Banath could only eye her, puzzled, but he acquiesced.

To the south the green and yellow glow of battle-magics was plain. A muted roar reached them, punctuated by the eruption of munitions. Hurl felt someone close and turned to see that Rell had moved his mount up to her left. She felt infinitely better with him at her side. A field of tents and blankets spread on the ground lay ahead and Hurl made for it. Closer, fires could be seen burning among them and many tents hung twisted and canted, some torn in strips. Banath, at Hurl's rear, groaned as realization clenched him. ‘No. Oh, no.’

‘I'm sorry,’ Hurl murmured. But she was far more than sorry. What lay ahead, no matter how horrific, was all her fault, her curse. I killed these men and women.

Finally, as they almost reached the field hospital, a soldier stood before them and raised a hand. A company cutter by his shoulder-bags. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, dazed.

‘Detachment from Heng,’ Hurl answered. ‘We ride under the sceptre.’

‘Heng? Heng!’ He gaped up at them. Hurl saw that gore stained his uniform, his hands; none seemed to be his. A chuckle escaped the man. It grew into a deep gut-heaving laugh that he made no effort to suppress. ‘Well,’ he said, tears now mixed with his laughter, ‘you are just too Burn-damned late, aren't you?’

‘I'm sorry…’

‘Sorry! You're sorry!’ The officer took hold of Hurl's leg, smearing blood on her trousers and boot. ‘All our wounded. Hundreds of men and women. Wounded. Helpless. Unarmed…’

Something like jagged iron thrust at Hurl's chest. She took a shuddering breath. ‘I could not possibly tell you how-’

‘He butchered us like sheep! Like sheep!’ He tugged at her leg as if to pull her from her mount. ‘Aren't we human? Men and women? How can this happen now? In this day and age? Will he slay us all?’

‘Calm yourself…’

‘Calm myself? You! You of all people, from Heng. You should know!’ He pushed her leg aside and backed away, disgusted. ‘This is your curse! You brought this upon us!’

Hurl flinched as if fatally stabbed; she stared, feeling the blood drain from her face, her heart writhing. Yea Gods, so it was now true. Was this foreordained, or did I walk voluntarily, of my own choosing, into this nightmare?

‘Well?’ he stared up at her, demanding an answer, some kind of explanation for the horror that bruised his eyes. Hurl opened her mouth, but no sound came. She tried again, wetted her cracked lips.

‘We're going to put an end to this.’

‘Good. Do so. Or do not come back. Because after this night… this atrocity… you are no longer welcome here.’

Part of her wanted to object, to argue the injustice of that charge. But another part accepted the judgment. So be it. History's condemnation made clear. They were damned. Unless — unless they managed to end things this night. She gave a rigid curt nod to the man and pulled her reins aside, kicking her mount.

After they exited the camp, riding north across the plain lit silvery in the clear night, Hurl waved Liss to her. ‘Can you track him now?’ she demanded, her voice unrecognizable to herself.

‘Yes, now that we've found his trail.’ The Seti shamaness was uncharacteristically subdued. ‘Hurl,’ she began, ‘it's not your-’

‘Yes, it is.’

The shamaness appeared about to object or dispute further, but reconsidered. She pursed her lips, looking away, then frowned. ‘Where are the brothers?’

‘What?’

‘The three — I don't see them.’

Hurl raised a hand for a halt. The troop slowed, stopped. ‘Sergeant!’

Banath rode up. ‘Sir?’

‘Find the brothers.’

The man jerked a nod, sawed his reins around, rode off. After a brief time he returned. ‘Not with the column, sir. Left us.’

Hurl turned to look back, the leather of her saddle creaking. Flashes lit the distant battlefield like lightning, and a dark cloud hung low over it like a thunderstorm — smoke? ‘They never wanted Ryllandaras,’ she said, thinking aloud. ‘They came for something else.’

‘Should we go back?’ Banath asked.

‘No — let them go. Personally, I hope never to see them again.’

‘Agreed,’ Liss added, sounding relieved.